


He's Holding My Hand

by Dylan Mischa Letacis (stereotypicalunicorn)



Series: Johnlock Goes to the Movies [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, AU, Accidents, Alternate Universe, Angst, Awkward, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Case, Cute, Cute Ending, Deduction, Film, Fluff, Fluffy, Gen, Getting Together, Gunshot, Happy Ending, Johnlock- Freeform, M/M, Movie Theatre, Movie Theatre AU, Multi, Murder, Other, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scared John, Serial Killer, Sherlock burns Lestrade, Sherlock is awkward, Sherlock is bored, Sherlock is cocky, Sherlock is gorgeous, Sherlock is on a case, Sweet, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Texting, Theatre, accidental hand holding, apologizing, date, except for the way they meet, hand holding, horror film, movie, sherlock is sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereotypicalunicorn/pseuds/Dylan%20Mischa%20Letacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to see a horror film in the theatre for a case, but ends up finding someone much more interesting to observe than the murderer he's supposed to be finding.<br/>Prompt: Your OTP are complete strangers sitting next to each other because the theatre was full, and they're seeing a horror movie. When a jumpscare comes on, person 1 gets scared and grabs person 2's hand. When they recover from the jumpscare they apologize profusely but the other just says its okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Holding My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's POV of the first chapter of the other fic in this series. I'd recommend that you read both because it's more fun that way, but you don't have to.

Sherlock had a case. Finally, after two damn weeks of boredom. It was a serial murderer, and those were always interesting. However, Sherlock had been quite disappointed by the man’s apartment- he seemed to be a writer of some sort, considering his collection of high quality pens, blank notebooks, and a vintage word processor. Hipster-ish tendencies, then. Boring.

They’d found the third body yesterday- an obvious serial killer, all three deaths within days of each other, all clearly executed by one man, all killed in some way that didn’t create any physical trauma. It was probably poison, but whoever had performed the autopsy was clearly too dull to find it. The murderer didn’t like getting his hands too dirty. He had made one mistake though. The third corpse was found suspended from a coat rack in the office building where the victim had been murdered, but instead of rope, the killer had used a scarf. It belonged to the murderer. The scarf was freshly ironed, so it couldn’t have been left at the building, and it obviously didn’t belong to the victim. She cared too much about her appearance to wear a navy blue coat with a black scarf.

A brief examination of a fabric sample from the scarf under a microscope yielded polypropylene fibers- found in a number of products, but most likely carpet considering the distribution and shape of the fibers. A quick look at an old blog post examining fibers from various carpet types matched the fibers to a brand of high-end carpet, an unusually expensive type. It could only exist in one place near the scene of the third murder- a penthouse at the top of an expensive building of flats, only a few blocks south of where the corpse was found.

After getting Lestrade to equip him with access to the flat, he’d found the writing supplies in the office, a near empty kitchen, and a bedroom almost devoid of personal objects- newly moved in. The only other significant possessions of the serial killer were a laptop and an extensive film collection- obviously only a part of a whole; a film enthusiast wouldn’t have a collection that lacked so many classics. Upon opening the laptop, Sherlock failed to guess the password within ten minutes- unusual, they were usually quite easy to crack. Anderson overrode the password (much to Sherlock’s disdain), and a window containing a completed order form for a ticket to a 4 pm showing of a film, “The Devil’s Chamber,” appeared.

So here he was, seeing a film- and a crap horror film, at that- for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. Mycroft had never liked films either. They were predictable, generally cheesy, and of course every plot twist was painfully convenient for the protagonist.

“One ticket to the 4 pm showing of ‘The Devil’s Chamber,” he said to the man behind the counter without bothering to glance at him. He pulled out his wallet and slapped a few pounds onto the counter, grabbing the ticket from the man’s hand and sprinting to theatre before the man could tell him anything else about concessions or the location of his theatre. What did he take him for, an idiot?

He flew into theatre nine, slamming his hands into either side of the doorway to break his momentum. His eyes swept over the theatre, looking for a spot in the center of the back row. He frowned at the crowd of people. The best seat available was two seats from the left in the back, and he quickly took it. 

Sherlock examined the film’s other attendees- mostly boring, average, with the exception of a woman whom he recognized from the mortuary- he wouldn’t have pegged her as one for horror films, but she did work at a mortuary. There was a pair of children with a bag of sweets- given to them as a sort of gift by someone, not one of their parents, though. Odd that they should be out alone at that age, but no, most certainly not suspects. To their left was an older man with a beard, wire glasses, and a posh disposition, although he did seem quite wise and cunning, considering that he was actually observing as opposed to attempting to osmose into the screen of his phone like the rest of the theatre- definitely a possible suspect. A few seats down from him sat a brunette- she’d had plastic surgery on her face and breasts but for work, not necessarily because she wanted to; however, she was definitely self-employed, so- ah, yes, that would explain it. A few seats to her left was a man in a pair of sunglasses. This of course made him immediately stand out, and the hushed conversation he was having on his mobile, as well as his formal dress despite his lack of an office job that would require such an outfit, only amplified Sherlock’s suspicion. Sat behind the mystery in the sunglasses was a group of men; they all worked together and were clearly all quite close despite the obvious conflicts between many of them… not suspects; the murders were clearly put together by one man. They were travelers, so it was unlikely that one of them would have a motive, and they were all mentally stable. Last was a woman in the front row dressed in a disgusting pink suit. Sherlock turned away from the eyesore immediately. 

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, sending a series of texts to Lestrade. 

Only two men here possibly clever enough to pull off a murder -SH

Even your intriguing cases are dull. I would have categorized this one as an eight if you had asked me this morning, but now it’s far too simple. This case is hardly a three. -SH

It was now that Sherlock noticed the man standing just inside the door- military, judging by his haircut and posture, likely just home from service considering the tan on his face and hands which didn’t extend above his wrists; he had been away from the cloudy, sunless weather of London, but he hadn’t been sunbathing. He had also managed to acquire an obvious psychosomatic limp. He had a cane, but stood without any problems with his leg; the stressful circumstances required for a psychosomatic limp definitely confirmed military. He was wounded in action, and he had been sent home. Definitely not a suspect; he wasn’t faking that limp, and the culprit could definitely run. Sherlock turned back to his phone.

Right, then if the case is so easy, call us when you’ve found him. Then, leave. Let us handle it. We don’t need a repeat of the case with the drugged flowers from two months ago.

The man in the doorway sat down in the seat next to him. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that he was quite attractive- from a merely logical and totally unattached standpoint, of course.

Of course. Everyone knows you’re in control of the operation, after all. -SH

He was perfectly aware of his overabundant use of sarcasm.

He waited for a response. He was attempting to decide what would be more satisfying- Lestrade not responding at all or Lestrade replying with some pathetic attempt at a comeback? He was leaning towards a weak comeback when he felt a pair of eyes lingering on his face. He glanced around and located them. The gaze belonged to the man sat next to him. This was no new occurrence by any means, people practically stared at Sherlock on a daily basis, but it usually wasn’t so open, and they usually weren’t so… interesting. He looked back to his phone quickly, not wanting to make eye contact. Ah, good, a text from Lestrade. 

Sherlock, seriously. Get out of there. Don’t try to handle this yourself. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. He usually didn’t react externally to Lestrade’s stupidity, but he figured it might have a bit of success in shaking the man next to him from his daze. The staring was getting a bit annoying. No, distracting. That was a better word for it. He had considered telling the man to piss off, but he had been told that was rude.

You need me. It doesn’t matter what I do; you’ll still call me within a couple of weeks. I’ll do what I please, thank you, Gavin. -SH

GREG.

Who the hell was Greg?

The lights in the theatre started to dim and Sherlock put his phone away. He spent the previews glancing between the posh older man and the sunglasses- bedecked younger one, but didn’t get far in deducing which was the criminal. Deducing was more difficult from a distance, but the older one was much more likely to wear a scarf. However, the updated laptop found in the flat would more likely belong to a younger man. Both lived alone, and neither had pets. The presence of the ex-military man (who had stopped staring) sitting next to him did not aid Sherlock in breaking the stalemate between the two men whatsoever.

A message on the screen at the front of the theatre asked him to silence his cell phone, but he couldn’t be bothered. Neither, it seemed, could the three men he was watching. It seemed likely that the older man didn’t own a mobile at all.

The film began to play, and Sherlock continued to watch the two men closer to the front of the theatre. Neither seemed particularly committed; both seemed comfortable in their environment, and both thought the film was quite average. Sherlock frowned. His eyes scoured the theatre for anything he could have missed (as if), but he came up empty. His eyes subconsciously turned to the man beside him. He was also bored. Thank goodness he wasn’t the only one.

He watched the man next to him shift positions on three occasions over a long period of time, too long a period of time. Sherlock allowed his left arm to drape across the armrest between them and straightened in his seat. He glanced back to the two men in the front. Both seemed unimpressed by what was on the screen in front of them, but he could deduce nothing else. He frowned. 

The dismal expression was slapped off his face by a crack that echoed through the theatre, followed immediately by a movement which he saw in the corner of his eye. He looked down to where the movement had ended. Two smaller, tanner hands had moved to hold his own bigger, paler one, and he followed the fingers, tracing his gaze across the back of a hand, a wrist, a shirtsleeve, a neck, and finally, the face of the man next to him, which turned away, then back towards him quickly before stopping and relaxing in realization. Sherlock stared at him, frozen in place by the warm touch on his fingertips.

The man turned suddenly to look at their hands, his face widening with embarrassment and surprise. He pulled away, and Sherlock held back a flinch at the sudden cold that surrounded his fingers and at the realization that he was holding my hand and I didn’t take advantage of it.

“Sorry, sorry. I am so, so sorry,” the man muttered. He bent to pick up his cane, which had fallen from his lap. “I am so sorry,” he said. He coughed. “Sorry.”

Sherlock moved his arm from the armrest and into his lap. He frowned. The man clearly had PTSD; there was no need for him to apologize. “Don’t be concerned. It’s hardly your fault, after all.” He tried to sound indifferent. The other man didn’t respond.

Sherlock spent the rest of the movie make a valiant attempt at solving his case, but he ended up spending more time watching the man next to him than making any progress.

The film finally faded away into blackness, and the credits rolled. Sherlock stayed in his seat to watch the two suspects walk out. He wouldn’t admit it, but he also stayed because the man sitting beside him wasn’t getting up either.

The rest of the crowd and the suspects filed out of the theatre, both men perfectly agile and average, and the lights came up. Sherlock turned to the man next to him. His brow furrowed at the man’s expression, which could be defined as annoyingly-impossible-to-read. Sherlock’s heart dropped as the man stood abruptly, but then he stopped, his eyes catching Sherlock’s. Sherlock gulped, and he, too, stood. He looked at the man in front of him, something racing inside him like the adrenaline of a good case, and he opened his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street.”

The other man stared back at him in confusion. “What?”

Sherlock ignored his mind telling him that yes, even he could be an idiot at times. “My name and address,” he said, attempting to appear calm, as if his awkward announcement of his personal details were planned.

“Do I get your phone number, too?” the man replied with a smile.

Sherlock ignored the leap in his chest and hoped it didn’t show on his face. No, no, he wouldn’t give the man his phone number. Not yet. Deducing over a distance was difficult, as he had decided earlier. It was convenient that an injured ex-soldier just home from a good deal of time overseas wouldn’t have plans, then. “You can have that at seven o’ clock tonight. You’re free,” Sherlock declared triumphantly.

With that, he threw the edges of his coat over his chest and strutted out of the room, through the building, and stopped just outside. He smiled to himself. He turned to go home. He didn’t think about the case, or Lestrade, or Greg (whoever that was), or the posh older man, or the younger one in the sunglasses. He had someone more interesting to consider now.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I plan to write the date from John's point of view at some point, but I'm honestly not sure when that will be. 
> 
> Huge shoutout to all of you amazing people! The other fic in this series is by far the fic I've gotten the biggest response to, and I'm so happy about everyone that commented and left kudos. You all are amazing.


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